UNWRAPPING THE RANCHER'S SECRET

  “No,” Walter said. “No. I fired in the air. I swear I did.”

  Sara was torn between assuring the man she’d be fine and wondering if she was dying. The pain was still there, but not as sharp. Maybe that’s what happened right before one dies. They become numb.

  “She hasn’t been shot,” Crofton said.

  Relief washed over her.

  “But we need a wagon and a doctor,” he said.

  “Why?” she asked.

  “I’ll be right back,” Walter said. “Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”

  One part of her didn’t want to know, the other part needed to know. “What’s wrong with me?” she asked. “Why do I need a doctor?”

  Crofton sat down and shifted her until she leaned against him while still lying on the ground. He pushed the hair off her face. “You’ll be fine,” he said. “Just fine.”

  She tried to twist enough to see her back, but his hold wouldn’t allow it.

  “Just hold still,” he said, wrapping his arm around her tightly.

  Her heart started racing again. “What aren’t you telling me? What’s wrong? Let me see.”

  He closed his eyes for a moment and bit his lips together before he leaned down and his lips touched her forehead, which was more startling than the gunshots had been.

  “I’m sorry, Sara, so sorry,” he whispered.

  His breath was warm on her forehead, and his lips touched the skin again. Tears formed and she couldn’t say exactly why. Blinking at the sting in her eyes, she asked, “For what?”

  “When I shoved you to the ground...” He took a breath and blew it out slowly. “You landed on a stick.”

  “You didn’t shove me. I tripped. I fell.” Relief at not being shot didn’t help the pain. “I fell on a stick?”

  “Yes,” he said quietly. “A sharp stick. It’s embedded in your side. A surgeon will need to remove it.”

  Fright returned, as did newfound pain. Probably because she thought it should hurt. Or maybe because it truly did. New tears formed, too. “It’s stuck in me?”

  His smile was weak, meant for assurance, and he once again pushed her hair back. “Yes, but you’ll live.”

  “You’re sure?”

  He nodded.

  Having never been in such a situation, she wasn’t sure how to react. The concern filling his eyes helped her choose. “I bet that’s a disappointment to you.”

  He frowned, but then a sparkle flashed in his eyes and he smiled. As crazy as it was, that made her feel better.

  “Just lie still,” he said.

  The pain was such she had no intention of moving, however, she jolted slightly when he moved. “Where are you going?”

  “Nowhere,” he answered, giving her shoulder a squeeze. “I’m just going to take off my shirt.”

  “Why?” Frightened again, she asked, “For a bandage? Am I bleeding that badly?”

  He kept her from twisting far enough to see more than blood staining the side of her dress.

  “Hold still,” he said, while leaning over her and pulling his arm out of his jacket and shirt at the same time. “I’m just going to cover the wound.”

  “You’ll freeze. It’s cold.”

  “It’s not that cold.”

  The rattle of a wagon and shouts arrived before the crowd did. A large one. Led by Bugsley.

  “What happened here?” Glaring at Crofton, Bugsley continued, “What did you do to her?”

  Unsure why, Sara said, “He didn’t do anything. I fell and landed on a stick.”

  “Where’s the doctor?” Crofton asked.

  He was tucking part of his shirt beneath her and though he was being gentle, the pain had her holding her breath.

  “Here, I’m here.” Dr. Dunlop knelt down beside her. “I’m gonna take a look-see, Sara, so I know what needs to be done.”

  She nodded. The shouts around them continued, but she closed them out and squeezed the hand that took a hold of hers as the doctor shifted her more onto her side.

  After what felt like a tremendous amount of poking and prodding, Doc Dunlop sat back on his knees.

  “I’ll need to do surgery, Sara,” he said. “I can either do that at your home, or mine. Before you decide, I must tell you, the ride to your house will be very painful, and a touch dangerous.”

  “You’ll do it at your place,” Bugsley said. “Boys, get her loaded up.”

  “No,” Crofton said. “It’ll be at the house, and I’ll put her in the wagon myself.”

  “Now see here,” Bugsley said.

  “Doc,” Crofton said, “help me get this stick secured so it doesn’t move when I pick her up.”

  Sara squeezed her eyes shut, but knew the instant Crofton stood. “Where are you going?”

  “Just to your other side,” he said. “I don’t want to bump the stick by picking you up on this side.” He’d stepped over her while talking.

  After a bit of maneuvering, Crofton’s shirt was tied around her waist and the pressure seemed to ease some of the pain.

  “I’m going to pick you up now and carry you to the wagon, Sara,” he said. “All right?”

  Bugsley had knelt down above her head. “Sara, listen to me, the ride will be too painful. You can have the surgery at doc’s house and I’ll take you home afterward.”

  She held a sense of loyalty to Bugsley, for she’d counted on him greatly the past few days and Winston had trusted him for many years, but she was scared, and hurt, and wanted to go home. Just go home. Actually, she wished she was still there. That she’d never followed Crofton down the hill. Turning her gaze to him, her throat burned as she whispered, “I want to go home.”

  “I know,” he said softly. “That’s where I’m taking you—don’t worry. But I have to lift you up. Ready?”

  Squeezing her eyes shut, and holding her breath, she nodded. “Yes.”

  Crofton lifted her off the ground and she hooked one arm around his neck. Moving the other arm hurt too much. He walked slowly, carefully, but pain had infused her side as he lifted her off the ground and continued to grow with each step he took.

  “Not much farther,” he said.

  Still holding her breath and letting out only little bits of air at a time, she nodded. “I know.” Not wanting him to believe she was a complete coward, she released a bit more air and added, “The stick’s not in my eye.”

  Crofton couldn’t remember the last time he felt admiration for anyone, but he did for Sara. She was courageous and strong and so stubborn. He, on the other hand was nothing shy of stupid. He should have known she’d follow him. Dang it, he’d been so focused on the accident, especially after viewing the crash site and noticing how the buggy debris had been dragged to a pile of unusable scrap lumber behind the mill, he hadn’t considered she might be watching him. Might follow.

  The fact someone was watching the area had crossed his mind, which is why he’d stayed low while sneaking across the open areas. Sara hadn’t. She’d been parting those saplings with as much pomp and circumstance as Moses had the Red Sea. He’d almost laughed at the sight of her. Until the gunfire started.

  He hadn’t thought, just leaped to cover her like he had back at the lawyer’s house. Her injury was his fault. Completely his fault. As would be her death.

  Mentally, he reprimanded himself. The injury wasn’t life threatening—as long as infection didn’t set in.

  At the wagon, he used a rock as a step to climb into the bed and then slowly eased down until sitting. The doc climbed in next and Crofton instantly said, “Give her something to ease the pain.” Tears were trickling down her cheeks, her brows were knit together and her bottom lip was white from how hard she’d been biting it.

  “I can’t yet,” the doc said while covering her shoulders with the co
at Crofton had discarded. “I’ll give her some chloroform before I remove the stick.”

  “Give her some now,” Crofton ordered.

  “I can’t,” the doc said again. “If I give her some now, I won’t be able to give her more later. That may be too much for her.”

  Feeling helpless was something Crofton had never experienced, and he sincerely did not like it. Nor did he like the fact Bugsley Morton had climbed into the wagon as well and was flapping his lips.

  “I told you the ride would be too much for her,” the man said. “Driver, take us to the doctor’s house.”

  Sara’s head was against his shoulder. “No,” she whispered. “Please take me home.”

  “Don’t worry,” Crofton assured. “We are taking you home.” He spoke loudly enough the driver heard, and the glare he gave the other man sitting on the seat of the buckboard was so hard he had no doubt they’d go in the right direction. That man was Walter Porter, and his expression said he was full of guilt, too.

  “Mr. Morton,” the doctor said, “Sara has told us she wants to be operated on at home, so that’s where it will be.” Shifting his gaze to Crofton, the doc included, “I’ll need help, and Amelia’s one of the best assistants in town.”

  The ride wasn’t smooth, nor was it short, and Crofton was burying his teeth in his bottom lip by the time they got to the house. He’d told the driver to take it easy so many times, Sara had told him to shut up. She’d said it with a weak grin, but it had been the paleness of her skin that had made him bite his lip. The wound wasn’t bleeding profusely, but she was tiny, and most likely didn’t have much blood to lose.

  Hurrying, fearing she might bleed to death at any moment, but cautious his movements didn’t jostle Sara too much, he scurried out of the wagon, and rushed for the house, shouting for Amelia.

  She met him on the front porch, full of questions.

  “Gather what the doc needs and meet us in Sara’s room,” he ordered, rushing through the open doorway and up the stairs.

  Sara didn’t say a word, until he pushed the door of her room open. “I don’t want to get blood on the quilt,” she said. “My mother made it for me.”

  He started to say a quilt didn’t matter, but stopped at the pleading in her eyes.

  “I’ll get the quilt,” Amelia said.

  “Get some towels, too,” the doctor said, entering the room behind her. “So we don’t ruin the rest of the bedding.”

  Panic instantly appeared in Sara’s eyes, and Crofton held her closer to his chest as she began to tremble. “You’ll be fine,” he whispered. The guilt eating at his stomach was more ferocious than anything he’d experienced. He’d never knowingly hurt a woman, and although this had been an accident, there was no denying her suffering was because of him.

  Oddly enough, at that moment, Alvin’s missing hand came to mind, and so did his father. Winston had taken responsibility for the man losing his hand by making sure he had a job, a home, and he would expect no less from his son.

  Therefore, Sara’s recovery was his responsibility.

  He turned to the doctor. “What else are you going to need? Water? Bandages?”

  “Yes, and yes,” the doctor answered. “Amelia knows. You can set Sara down if she’s getting too heavy.”

  “No, I’ll wait for the towels,” Crofton replied.

  After throwing back the quilt, Amelia had left the room, but her hurried footsteps could be heard already returning. Besides, holding Sara assured him she was still alive. He still didn’t believe the stick was life threatening, but it was a lingering thought, along with worry of infection setting in after surgery.

  “It’ll just be another minute, Crofton,” Amelia said, entering the room with a stack of towels. With quick movements, she splayed them out over the center of the bed and then added another sheet. All of them were white and he could almost see blood already staining them. His hand holding Sara’s back was wet and the shirt wrapped around her waist was fully saturated with blood.

  “There, lay her down now,” Amelia said.

  Crofton looked at the doctor. “Do you want to untie the shirt?”

  “No, I’ll cut it off, along with her dress,” the man answered. “That will be the easiest.”

  The doctor appeared quite confident and capable, yet Crofton wasn’t fully prepared to turn Sara over to his complete care. “Get on the other side of the bed,” he instructed. “Make sure the stick doesn’t get bumped while I’m setting her down.”

  As the doctor hurried around the foot of the bed, Crofton turned toward Amelia. “Roll up a couple more of those towels to keep her propped on one side.”

  “You’re as good at giving orders as Winston was,” Sara said weakly.

  Crofton was relieved to hear her voice. She hadn’t opened her eyes since asking to have the quilt removed. “It’s a trait all of us Parks have.”

  She shook her head, barely, but enough. “My last name isn’t Parks. It never will be.”

  He didn’t expect her statement to affect him, but it did. There was a longing in her tone, a sadness. Never having expected to wish he had siblings, he bit his lips together at the idea of cursing Winston for never adopting her, giving her the last name she obviously had wanted.

  “Ready,” Amelia said. “Be careful now.”

  Crofton nodded, and gently eased Sara onto the bed. The doctor instantly went to work cutting apart the shirt and the dress beneath it. The stick had entered her side just above the waistband of her pantaloons, and the tip of it could be made out poking out of her skin just below her ribcage. It was at an upward angle, from back to front, and he hoped it hadn’t snared any of her organs.

  “You can leave now, Mr. Parks,” the doctor said. “Mrs. Long and I can handle it from here.”

  Not ready to go anywhere, Crofton stepped around Amelia who was cutting away the material covering Sara’s stomach, and proceeded to position a pillow more evenly under Sara’s head. He’d admitted she was a beautiful woman before, but right now, looking down on her, he suspected not even angels were lovelier than her.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  He bit his lips at how her simple gesture of gratitude stung. “Shh,” he said, brushing the hair away from her face. He wanted to bend down and kiss her forehead like he had earlier, to offer a bit of condolence for her pain. His pulse started pounding, and he lifted away his hand.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Parks,” the doctor said. “I have to give her something for the pain now.”

  Amelia took his arm at the same time the doctor elbowed him aside. “Come along, Crofton. I’ll be with her the entire time.”

  As Amelia tugged him toward the doorway, Crofton planted his heels. “I’ll stay in case—”

  “You need to go make sure all those men downstairs aren’t muddying up my floors,” Amelia said while giving him a solid shove toward the door.

  Crofton had forgotten about everyone else other than the angel who had been in his arms. Including Bugsley Morton. By the time he deduced he really didn’t care what Morton, or anyone else was doing downstairs, the door to Sara’s room had been firmly shut—with him standing in the hallway. He grasped the knob, but before turning it, a lick of common sense washed over him. He wasn’t a surgeon, or a nurse, and would probably be more of a hindrance than a help.

  Accepting how that churned his guts sent a fiery shot of anger up his spine. He spun around and headed for his room down the hall, where he grabbed the dirty shirt he’d collected from the stable. He hadn’t been cold while holding Sara, but he was now.

  Shaking aside a shiver, he put on the shirt and made his way to the stairway. Voices, several of them, hushed but harsh, quickened his footsteps. The group of men grew silent and still as he stepped off the bottom step.

  Crofton chose his words with purpose. “You can return
to the mill, Mr. Porter. I’ll send word of Sara’s recovery.”

  He’d recognized Walter Porter as the same bug-eyed man who’d been behind the counter when he’d visited the mill yesterday, and took note of how Walter glanced at Bugsley as if awaiting further orders. Crofton wasn’t in the mood to be ignored. “That goes for the rest of you, too. I appreciate the swift assistance you provided, but it may be hours before the surgery is complete.” Having just thought of that, he had half a mind to run back upstairs to ask the doc how long it would take.

  “I was just telling Mr. Morton that I’d prefer to wait here,” Walter said, squaring his shoulders and tipping up his chin. “Sara is as close to a daughter as I’ll ever have, and my concern for her greatly overrides all else.”

  Walter shuffled his feet slightly, as if second-guessing his sternness as Crofton eyed him squarely.

  “No insult intended, Mr. Parks. Your father hired me to be the mill clerk shortly after he started this place. I barely knew how to add two and two, but that didn’t stop him from giving me the job, or from making sure I learned everything I needed to know.” Walter waved a hand at the few others standing behind him. “Same with most of them, and we’ve all watched Sara grow up. We know how much Winston loved her, and we do, too. If you don’t mind, we’d just as soon hang around right here, ’til we get word from Doc she’s all right.”

  Crofton didn’t need to know any of that. He also didn’t doubt it was true. “She’s going to be fine,” he said, needing to believe that as much as anyone else. He also noted the anger in Bugsley’s eyes and the tightness of the man’s lips. Bugsley had already ordered these men to return to work, and they’d refused.

  Crofton took a moment to ponder that, before he nodded. “All right, you’re all welcome to wait.” Eyeing Alvin in the crowd, he nodded toward him. “Care to see if Amelia left a pot of coffee on the stove?”

  “Right away, sir,” Alvin answered. “If not, I’ll make a pot.”

  It was a small crowd, four others beside himself, Morton, Walter and Alvin. “There’s room for everyone to sit in the front parlor.”

  The men offered their thanks, shaking his hand and introducing themselves as they made their way across the front hall. He didn’t bother noting their names. Some he’d already learned, but for the most part, his mind didn’t have room to collect information right now. As Walter followed the others, Crofton turned to walk toward the office. He didn’t want coffee. A stiff shot of whiskey is what he was after.